


Between the shadow and the soul

by PunkyNemo (TheVampireCat)



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hostage Situation, Mild Smuttiness, Sacrifice
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-09-27 23:13:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17171276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheVampireCat/pseuds/PunkyNemo
Summary: When Frank agrees to trade his life for Leo Lieberman's it's the easiest decision in the world. Until it's not.After all, dying's easy, but it's the living that gets him every time.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my contribution for Kastle Christmas for Sarma. It turned out to be longer than I expected so now it's a chaptered thing. Go figure.
> 
> Title is from a poem by Pablo Neruda.

_"There is no space wider than that of grief,  
_ _there is no universe like that which bleeds."_

~ Pablo Neruda, _Point_

 

It's snowing again.

 

It feels like it's been snowing forever.

 

Normally, it wouldn’t bother him. He actually quite likes the snow when he gets right down to it. Likes the way it falls to the ground and covers all the ugliness, likes the way it feels on his skin, his hair, his tongue. He likes the way the snowflakes look as well with their intricate shapes and their crystalline surfaces that sparkle like tiny kaleidoscopes if the sun touches them just right.

 

Snow means something too: Thanksgivings, Christmases, a new and hopefully better year being ushered in on the tired and torn coattails of the old. It means coming home, leaving the harsh Iraqi deserts behind along with the war and the bloodshed, the oil fires, and the despair that hung in the air as thick as the smoke.

 

And all that’s before he even gets to the trivial things which now don’t seem trivial at all. Things like the snowmen and snow angels; the snowballs getting stuffed down the back of his shirt because he hadn't noticed how tall Lisa was getting; the trees and fairy lights; the cinnamon lattes that he indulged Maria with, even while he stuck to a roast which she playfully claimed was darker than his soul.

 

That is to say, not dark at all.

 

Maybe.

 

She didn’t know how right she was. She didn’t know how wrong she was either.

 

He's always liked the snow. Today he doesn't like it at all.

 

Today it stretches around him like a dirty blanket, covering the ground in front of him all the way down to the thick forest to the south, hiding what he needs to see and turning his bones to ice. Today it fights its way into his skull, turns the bullet lodged in his brain to a shard of nothing but agonising misery. Today the snow is every bad thing that ever happened to him hiding under a pristine disguise.

 

It’s uglier than anything he’s ever seen.

 

He wants to say he doesn't know how he got here but that's not true. He knows _exactly_ how he got here. It was a decision, a moment of extreme mercy or extreme cruelty he made months ago at a carousel of painted ponies. It was foolishness and rage, and it’s come back to bite him in the ass as hard as its fucking razor-sharp teeth will allow.

 

Karma is a bitch - she always has been.

 

It’s almost two weeks to Christmas and he's in North Dakota, although that hardly matters. He's so far away from any real civilisation that he may as well be on the moon. The fact that he can still claim with any certainty that he's in a place that actually exists on planet Earth is merely aesthetic.

 

Still, he's sitting on a wooden porch and there's a fairly large and well maintained cabin behind him; he's got his hands wrapped around a mug of decent black coffee and if he wanted to he could go inside and thaw his bones in front of a fire.

 

He doesn't want to go inside. The last thing he wants to do is go inside.

 

He’s not alone, and that's something. He's not sure if its a good or bad something but it's most definitely a something. And he's not talking about the beady-eyed crows staring at him and looking like dark, gaping wounds on the snow.

 

Even out here he can hear muffled voices and the walls of the cabin do nothing to disguise the anger in them. David. Karen. Red. Curtis. Somewhere he can hear Sarah too and she's crying softly. He wishes they'd look after her instead of the pointless bickering they're doing right now. She needs someone - probably her husband, but he guesses she wouldn’t be choosy under the circumstances.

 

He swallows a mouthful of coffee. Grimaces.

 

Dark as his soul. Or not.

 

Maybe.

 

The fact is there's no reason to argue. No reason to fight. What’s done is done. There's no changing it. It's his fault. It always is. He makes bad decisions and they come back to hurt the people he loves.

 

This time is no different. Except it is. This time it ends. It's ends here.

 

Behind him he hears the front door open and slam shut, a gust of fire-warmed air hitting the back of his neck, and then the sound of boots on the wooden slats. He doesn't have to look to know it's Karen. He knows her footfalls, he knows that strange quality his world takes on when she's near, he knows her scent and, despite the fact that there's a definite hint of copper in the it now, she's still sweet as ever. And even though he knows it's wrong and pointless now, there's something about that that makes him ache in ways he doesn't want to understand but instinctively does.

 

No matter.

 

It still ends here.

 

~~~

 

She doesn't speak for a long time. She sits on the step next to him but far enough away that he can't touch her and she stares into the distance, watching the carrion birds as they gambol like feathered devils in the snow. She's sporting a nasty cut on her forehead and a bruise on her cheek, scraped knuckles on her hands, and he put his lips on all those places when he found her bound and frightened and freezing in an abandoned barn earlier today, burner phone with his name on it strapped to her thigh. She’s wounded there too - a long deep cut made slowly and with a kind of sadistic deliberation he’s realised he knows far too much about - and even though it’s been bandaged and stitched now, he can still see traces of brown blood staining her jeans.

 

He guesses some wounds need to bleed for a while before they heal. Some don’t heal at all. Worse are the ones that don't bleed but stay with you like a sickness there’s no cure for.  

 

But the truth is that despite what he tells himself about how she’ll recover and how in time, the wound will be nothing but a thin silver memory on her skin, he hates that blood stain with everything inside him capable of hate, which even he has to admit is more than he once thought. That piece of smug shit used a mirror - a shard of its broken glass - to scar her flesh and turn something beautiful into something ugly.

 

Jokes on him though. There’s nothing about Karen Page that could ever be ugly. Not a damn thing.

 

Still, the symbolism was intentional. Frank gets it. He was meant to.

 

And _Jesus fucking Christ_ this morning seems so long ago, but he knows it's not because he can still feel the adrenalin pumping through his veins, and he's still twitching and forcing himself to breathe, and he still keeps making himself look at her to make sure she's really here and really real.

 

But she is real. She’s the most real thing in his life. It’s been that way for a while now. It doesn’t mean anything though - he can’t let it.

 

The wind picks up, throws some of the snow around and he can see the trees to the south shaking like a row old-timey feather dusters.

 

Next to him, Karen stretches out her unwounded leg, kicks at the ground, the toe of her boot disappearing into the snow at the foot of the stairs, before she draws her knees back up and huddles into her coat.

 

The wind tugs at her hair and a weak ray of sun breaks through the clouds briefly turning it gold.

 

He could look at her all day. He could look at her for the rest of his life, short as it may be.

 

“Don't do this,” she says eventually. “Please don't do this.”

 

He shrugs. “Already done.”

 

She shakes her head. “It's not,” she says firmly. “We can find another way.”

 

He takes a breath, gulps his coffee. Inside it's quiet now - he can't even hear Sarah crying - and outside there's nothing and everything at the same time.

 

“Ain't no other way.”

 

This is the truth. This is God's honest truth.

 

“No,” she says. “No, there has to be.”

 

He turns to look at her then. Her eyes are bloodshot, tears frozen on her face. The tip of her nose is bright red and so are her ears.

 

She's the prettiest girl in the world. The kindest one too. The best one. And he doesn't want to hurt her. Not anymore.

 

And that's another win - because after this he can stop. After this he can never hurt her again.

 

“If we just…”

 

“Karen, there's a little girl out there,” he interrupts. “Leo's out there because of me…”

 

“Goddamnit Frank,” she says. “This is not on you.”

 

“Course it is,” he puts his almost empty mug down, swivels on his ass so that he’s facing her and shifts closer. “I let him live. I did that. I thought it would be worse for him to live with his face all messed up than it would for him to die. And this…” he indicates vaguely at the snow and then pointedly at the blood on her jeans. “... is what I got for it. What you got for it… and what _they_ got for it.”

 

He doesn’t need to do anything for her to know he’s talking about the Liebermans.

 

“You saved me,” she says firmly. “You can save her too.”

 

He nods. “Yes. Yes I can.”

 

“That’s not what I meant…”

 

He knows that. It doesn’t make the slightest bit of difference though.

 

“Karen, David and Sarah are inside there without their little girl because of me. Because I didn’t do my job. I didn’t end it when I should have, and he came and he took you and he took her. Because of me.”

 

He moves closer then, puts a hand on her arm and shoves his face right up to hers. She's even prettier this close. The puffy eyes and runny nose don't make the slightest bit of difference.

 

She looks away, scrubs a hand over her face. He hates that. He realises on some level getting in her face like this is an intimidation technique. The only thing is, it's never worked before and he hates that it does now.

 

He hates to make her cry too but it seems like it’s the only thing he really knows how to do.

 

No matter. This will stop soon as well.

 

His fingers tighten on her arm and he waits until she finds it in herself to look at him.

 

“Billy Russo wants revenge. He’s wants me. This is how he gets me.”

 

“Not if you don’t let him. You don't have…”

 

“I do.”

 

“No, you don't. Now now. We can find a better way…”

 

He tries to hold back a laugh and all it does is come out as a derisive snort, and when he sees the hurt and disappointment in her eyes, he shakes his head. He’s not sure if it’s at himself or at her but it doesn’t matter either way.

 

He sighs. “I die and a little girl lives… I’d say that’s a better way, wouldn't you? I'd say that's the best deal we’re going to get.”

 

It's unfair. He knows it is but it feels like the kind of statement that should end this conversation. It feels like she should swallow her tears, rub angrily at her cheeks and then find it in herself to accept it. She’s smart. Pragmatic. She knows when something makes sense. And she’s just spent five days being Billy Russo’s prisoner while he led Frank, Murdock, Curtis and the Liebermans on a seemingly endless chase through no-mans-land until they ended up here - wherever the fuck here is - with little but snow and cold and an ultimatum.

 

Frank Castle dies. Leo Lieberman lives.

 

They have until morning to decide - like there’s even a decision to make.

 

As he said, it’s a fair trade.

 

But despite the obvious logic, she’s not letting it go. She’s not backing down and even though it's frustrating, part of him is so grateful she’s not. It means something. _He_ means something.

 

“So that’s it then?” she says. “He gives Leo back and you let him torture you? You’ll just let yourself die?”

 

He huffs, shakes his head again.

 

“Dying’s easy, Karen.”

 

Another statement that should end the conversation. After all, he's a goddamn expert on dying, on killing.

 

But maybe she is too.

 

When she looks at him again he knows she's got him even before she's even said a word. He knows whatever is going to come out of her mouth is going to unravel this carefully crafted narrative he's trying to sell her. She's too smart for him. It's always been that way.

 

“Maybe for you,” she says not bothering to hide the way her voice cracks. “But you of all people should know better than anyone what it's like for the ones you leave behind. You should know how that feels, how you want to _cut your own arm off just to feel how they can hurt you again_...” she pauses, studies his face and finds exactly what she was looking for in it. “Yeah Castle, I know _all_ your bullshit.”

 

If he was standing he's sure he would stumble. As it is, he pulls away, takes his hand off her arm like she’s burned him - in a way she did.  She always did have a way with words. She always did have a way of making him feel two feet tall.

 

She's right. She's always right.

 

“Ain't remotely the same thing,” he says and he throws more bite behind his words than necessary. He has to, because on their own, they're nothing and they both know it.

 

“Yeah,” she says nastily. “Because unless we’re out there impaling people on meathooks and gunning down fathers and brothers, the rest of us don't really feel it. We can't. We don't have the capacity. Only you do.”

 

He opens his mouth to say something, but isn't surprised that there nothing there. He doesn't think he's ever truly won an argument against Karen Page.

 

She looks at him long and hard and the cold winter air lifts her hair again, and then she stands up and goes back inside and leaves him there alone in cold.


	2. Chapter 2

_In the end, everyone is aware of this:_  
_nobody keeps any of what he has,_  
_and life is only a borrowing of bones._

—  Pablo Neruda, _October Fullness_

  


It goes much the same for the rest of the day. David, Curt and even Red all try and talk him out of it. They all promise there's another way but not one of them actually has another way or even a suggestion of one. And even if they did, he knows Billy Russo better than any of them - he's seen what he can do and he knows what he's willing to do. If he can murder the wife and children of his best friend in cold blood, there's no telling what he'd do to a little girl he has no connection to.

 

It's a sad fact, but Billy Russo is ruthless scum and that's not going to change.

 

The only one who doesn't try and change his mind is Sarah. She comes outside as the sky is getting dark. She's still crying and she wipes her eyes and nose on her sleeve.

 

And then she kneels down behind him and puts her arms around him and kisses his cheek.

 

“Thank you,” she says softly. “Thank you.”

 

He has nothing to say so he just nods, pats her hand gently and waits until she retreats back inside.

 

~~~

 

Later he pulls the picture of Maria and the kids out of his pocket and looks at it in the fading light.

 

_I'm coming home, babe. You and me and the kids again. I'm coming home and it'll be good. I was wrong before. You are home. You have to be._

 

Maria is quiet though. Sometimes - often even - he hears her voice in his head. Mostly she's chewing him out for being an asshole but every now and then it's different. Sometimes she's telling him she loves him and she misses him and he's the best husband and the best father.

 

He knows it's not her. He knows it's his own broken mind. But that doesn't make it any less comforting.

 

A gust of wind grabs the photograph out of his fingers, blows it out into the snow. He watches as it glides down towards the forest, buoyant and almost graceful on the air currents, and then after a while he can’t see it anymore.

 

No matter. He doesn't need it now.

 

~~~

 

Nobody says anything when he comes inside. They have a fire going in the living area and Sarah is asleep on the couch in front of it, David holding her and stroking her hair. That's good. She needs him. She needs him more than he could ever know.

 

Curt and Murdock sit at the kitchen table, two bottles of beer in front of them, and they both look up at him expectantly, and he doesn't need to be a genius to know that they're making plans, trying to see the thing they're so sure they're missing, the thing that'll save him and Leo and put Billy Russo in a hole in the ground.

 

He had that chance once and chances like that don't come more than once in a lifetime.

 

It's a fool’s errand, but he guesses at least they're doing something.

 

Karen is nowhere to be seen and when he looks around, Curt points to the stairs at the far end of the room.

 

“She’s resting,” he says softly.

 

Frank nods. He's not going to bother her. She’s been through hell the past few days and he's guessing she's dealing with some survivor guilt as well because… well because she's here and Leo's not.

 

That's something else he's leaving for her. She doesn't deserve any of it.

 

Curt takes a swig of his beer and grimaces.

 

“Budweiser?” Frank asks and Curt nods.

 

“I know,” he says gesturing to him and Murdock, “A blind man and a one-legged man walk into a bar… sounds like a bad joke.”

 

“Plus we need a third,” Murdock says. “There’s always three.”

 

“A dead man.” It’s the wrong thing to say but Frank’s past caring. It’s gallows humour or bust.

 

“Frank--” Curt starts, but he shakes his head and turns to Murdock, asks him to follow him, ignores the tired look on his face and the hook in his brow and they go to sit down on the coffee table in front of David.

 

“She okay?” He asks, glancing at Sarah. It's a stupid question. Of course she's not okay. Her daughter has been kidnapped by a mad man who will stop at nothing for revenge. She's about as far away from okay as one woman can be.

 

Still, David nods and adjusts the blanket over them, tugs her a little closer, and then opens his mouth but Frank cuts him off.

 

“Don't say anything,” he says. “For once, just shut up and listen. Please.”

 

To his surprise, David's mouth snaps shut with an audible click. Some final request. All he had to do to get David to shut up was agree to die. He'd laugh if it wasn't so damn depressing.

 

“Tomorrow, when Billy calls…” he glances over at the burner phone lying on the coffee table next to Murdock, “we do exactly what he says. Once you have Leo, you leave. You don't pull any stunts. You don't try to save me. You get your little girl and you all get out of here.

 

“Listen to Curt - he's done this shit before and he can get you out of here fast.” He looks at Red then. “Also, this asshole isn't too bad either. Don't let him fool you. He can keep you all safe.”

 

“We don't need to do it like this…” David starts but Frank cuts him off.

 

“You want your little girl back?” He asks and when David doesn't answer he repeats the question slowly. “Do. You. Want. Your. Little. Girl. Back?”

 

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah I do. Course I do, but we don't...”

 

“Then we need to do it like this,” he says. “Don't go making it complicated when it ain't. We don’t have a choice.”

 

That’s also God’s honest truth. They don’t. They’re sitting ducks reliant entirely on the whims of a sociopath.

 

Murdock says his name but Frank ignores him, carries on talking to David. Murdock will get his chance but right now it's him and he gets to have this.

 

“When you're out, you know what you need to do, yeah?”

 

David nods again but Frank doesn't stop.

 

“Billy Russo will come for you once he’s got me…” he waits for those words to sink in, mainly for himself.

 

_I'm coming home, Maria. As soon as I can._

 

Next to him he senses more than sees Murdock's ears prick up.

 

“He's ruthless and all we’re doing here is buying time. There's no real lasting deal here. There’s a good chance he’ll keep me alive and then just to spite me, he'll come after you and he'll come after Curt and he'll come after…” he stops. “... He'll come after Karen… again. Make me watch and then kill me too.”

 

His voice sounds choked and he has to swallow hard before he continues. These words are even harder to say. These words make him twitch and turn his blood to acid.

 

Dying might be easy. But this isn't.

 

“...So the best thing you can all do is get as far away as you can so the worst he can do is kill me.”

 

“Frank, you can try to…”

 

“Kill him? Put your little girl at risk? No, I can't do that.”

 

“I mean after.”

 

He makes a sound that could have once been related to a laugh.

 

“Ain't no after David. Not for me.”

 

He thinks that might have been the hardest thing he's had to say since the day they put his family in the ground. It feels like a betrayal and a lie and the world's most terrible truth all rolled into one.

 

_(I want there to be an after, for you)_

 

_Me too my girl, but we don't always get what we want._

 

David sighs and his eyes flick to Murdock and back again.

 

“In theory, I can get her a new identity in 12 hours, have her anywhere in the world in 24. Money might take a bit longer but she can stick with us until then.”

 

Frank shakes his head. “I've already transferred all the cash you gave me into an offshore account. It's waiting for her… you just get her out…”

 

“She’s not going to go easy - you know that, right? She’s going to want to see him put away forever or put down… might even do it herself.”

 

He holds up his hand. “Well then it’s your job to see that doesn’t happen.”

 

“Excuse me, have you met Karen Page?”

 

He swears he hears Murdock huff good-naturedly beside him.

 

“Look, you clowns want to know what you can do to make this better? This is it. You get Karen as far away from Russo as you can. If you ever do anything for me, you do this.”

 

His voice is hard and heavy and both David and Murdock are silent for a long moment, before David nods and adjusts the blanket over Sarah again. “Okay,” he says. “Okay.”

 

Frank can see he wants to say something else. He wants to start again about plans and back up. Other ways.

 

There is no other way.

 

Even if there was, this way he gets to save a little girl. He's come full circle. This feels too right not to do.

 

Almost.

 

Maybe.

 

He swallows hard. “Thanks.”

 

It's not what he wanted - Karen off somewhere having to start a new life away from everything. But she'll have Murdock and maybe the Liebermans and that's about the very best he could hope for.

 

This is her “after”. At least one of them gets to have one. At least it gets to be her.

 

That’s not to say David is wrong. She won’t go easy. There are some gaping holes in his plan but it’s the best he’s got. It’ll have to do for now.

 

He turns to Murdock then, looks at him long and hard.

 

“You…” he says eventually. “You keep her safe. You give up all your social justice warrior, self-righteous bullshit and look after her.”

 

“Frank, you know this is…:

 

“Do I have your word?”

 

“You don’t have to…”

 

“Goddamnit Matthew Murdock, do I have your word?”

 

Glaring at Red shouldn’t work. It shouldn’t be a thing. He can’t see and, as far as Frank knows, you can’t actually feel expressions. And yet… somehow it does work. Murdock is quiet for a few long moments and then he nods firmly.

 

“Okay.”

 

“Okay,” Frank repeats. “You love her… so go love her.”

 

This is also hard to say but it needs to be said, it needs to be put out there. Murdock _does_ love her. He always has. Sometimes he just needs a reminder, sometimes he just needs to get his priorities straight.

 

Murdock, for his part, seems to chew on this for a while, small muscle jumping in his clenched jaw, brow furrowed, and then he inclines his head towards Frank.

 

“You love her too,” he says mildly.

 

_Yeah, well done asshole. Well fucking done._

 

“Okay, Red.” He's not sure whether he's going for indulgence or indifference but he should know better than to try and hide something like this from Murdock.

 

“You do,” Murdock says. “When you’re around her your heart rate goes up, so does your body temperature… you even smell different…”

 

“Yeah, that's a neat party trick you do, but it's really fucking annoying when the adults are talking.”

 

Murdock ignores him. “It’s okay,” he says. “I get it. You love her - I know how easy it is.”

 

Yeah, yeah it really is. Maybe even easier than dying.

 

There’s no point in denying it either. There really isn’t. He has less than 12 hours left, depending on exactly what Billy wants to do with him. It really doesn’t matter now. Fact is they all pretty much knew anyway. _He_ knew. He just didn’t think it was very important.

 

He sighs, shakes his head. “Yeah,” he says. “Whatever. You just do what you need to do. I don’t care what you need to give up to do it - you give it up. You make it right.”

 

He pushes himself up off the table, turns around to go to Curt; they need to work out logistics as best they can, come up with a contingency plan that’s malleable enough to absorb any last minute changes or instructions Billy might send, but it seems the universe has other ideas.

 

Because she’s there. Standing halfway down the stairs, a blanket draped over her shoulders. Her eyes are still puffy and her hair unkempt, the scar on her forehead standing out bright and red and a testament to everything he’s done wrong in this world.

 

She’s looking at him much the same way - like he’s the human embodiment of every mistake she’s ever made; like she regrets everything from the moment she walked into his life until this exact second in time.

 

He wouldn't be surprised if she did. Everything he touches turns bad and breaks.

 

“Karen…”

 

He has no idea what he's going to say, no idea how much she’s heard, but she doesn’t give him time to wonder about that.

 

“Don’t. Just don’t say anything.”

 

Okay. Okay. He won’t. He won't do anything she doesn't want him to. She's earned that.

 

“You think… you think you can just make plans for me? You can just send me away like a child who doesn’t know any better… after…” she chokes back the words, grits her teeth and then indicates vaguely at the table where he was sitting with Murdock. “...after _that_.”

 

 _Yes, after that. After all the_ I love yous _and all the confessions and how it feels like you’re pulling my bones out of my body every single fucking time I look at you. The answer is still yes. The answer is still that I would do any goddamn thing on earth to keep you safe. Me being dead doesn’t change that._

 

He doesn’t say any of it. He doesn’t need to. Truth hangs heavy between them like it always does. She knows this. She’s always known.

 

She stares at him long and hard and when she speaks again, her voice is colder than the snow outside.

 

“You have no right.”

 

He can respect that. And it’s true. He has no right. He never did. It’s because he forgot that, that she’s here now.

 

She swallows heavily and her eyes flash and, for an infinitesimally small moment, she looks like she truly has found it in herself to hate him.

 

Even as he flinches, he thinks maybe it's for the best. Not that this is the way a man necessarily wants to leave this mortal coil - Karen Page’s hatred like ice down his spine - but he thinks it might be better than any other way. He doesn't think he could take a tearful goodbye, he couldn't say no to begging and pleading.

 

He couldn't say no to her at all.

 

So yes, maybe it's best. Maybe it's even fitting. So many people hate him. One more shouldn’t make any difference.

 

He knows that's a lie before the thought is even fully formed in his head.

 

She looks around the room, gaze resting on Murdock slightly longer than everyone else. And maybe he really does feel glares because Frank is pretty sure he sees him flinch too, and then she turns around and goes back up the stairs and all he wants to do is follow her.

 

~~~

 

He puts things in order that night. Or at least he tells himself that's what he should do.

 

The truth is there’s not much to do. Not that there is much he _can_ do out here in the ass end of North Dakota. The house is huge and silent - Murdock and Curtis keeping watch, the Lieberman’s asleep in one of the bedrooms and Karen in another. And then him. Him and a shard of mirror glass crusted with Karen’s blood, a torn strip of linen wrapped around it.

 

He doesn't know why he kept it, but it seemed important that he did.

 

He doesn't have any guns or other  weapons with him. None of them do. Billy made sure of that. Made them give them up for the promise of Karen and Leo's lives. And they did. Gladly.

 

And then he betrayed them and took Leo away.

 

Maybe this deal isn't as good as he thought. Maybe it's all a scam.

 

Maybe it doesn't matter because he has no choice.

 

Maybe.

 

He guesses he could write everyone letters. Tell them all some bullshit about how much they meant to him, how he found something in each and every one of them - even Red and David - that he thought he'd lost, but he doesn't. If they don't know now, they won't ever know. It's just words, that's all they ever were and words don't mean much.

 

Still, there's something very right and even more wrong about ending it like this. Alone. Separate. Everyone lost to their own thoughts and worries, which are all vastly different from one another and yet exactly the same.

 

_I'm coming home Maria. I've missed you so much. There's a little girl and I can save her and if that doesn't mean everything's okay in the world, then I don't know what does._

 

He doesn’t really believe in God anymore - hasn’t been able to believe in something that would allow him to live and his children to die, but he says a cursory prayer anyway - partly for himself, but mostly for Leo. Mostly it’s a stern talking to the Big Man about not fucking this up too. He adds something in at the end about looking after Karen, making sure she’s safe even if she has the Lord’s own bedevilled warrior on earth looking out for her… maybe looking is the wrong word.

 

Yeah, he’s an ass. He’ll be that way to the end, even if the end of The Punisher is more of a blessing than a tragedy in the grander scheme of things.

 

Still, there’s some comfort in what he’s achieved - what he’s done in the time since his world was blown apart and his life ended even if he stubbornly refused to stop walking. He’s avenged Maria, mostly. He’s put down a lot of scum. He’s saved lives. He’s fixed lives.

 

He’s fallen in love again.

 

And that’s probably the most insane thing that could have ever happened to him.

 

Not that it matters.

 

_(The rest of us don’t feel it like you do)_

 

_God, Karen. I’m sorry it has to end like this. I'm sorry after everything I have to go out like this, leave you hating me._

 

Outside the crows are still bouncing around in the snow. They look like black blobs, feathers made shiny and silver by the moonlight; they’re still ugly as fuck. They’re waiting. They’re not called a murder for nothing.

 

He shakes his head, goes to the bathroom to shower, stands in the spray for a long time. He’s weary and his bones feel like lead but he imagines the stress of the last few days sluicing off his skin, circling the drain and it almost feels like it does. This is almost over.

 

He's not scared.

 

Dying, after all, is easy.

 

When he’s done he grabs a towel from the cupboard and ties it around his waist and runs a hand through his wet hair.

 

It's going to be okay. It will. He'll die and Leo will live.

 

Fair trade.

 

Quick glance in the mirror and he takes note of his scars - the gunshots, the stab wounds, the others that can’t be seen on his skin.

 

Ashes to ashes. Dust to fucking dust.

 

He pulls his jeans on, switches off the light, heads down the passage to his room. He doesn’t know what he plans to do with the rest of the night. Sleeping seems like a waste but he also doesn’t really want to engage with anyone. Or, to be more precise, the only person he does want to engage with doesn’t want that from him.

 

A better man would be knocking down her door. Good thing he’s not a better man then. He has no right, after all. That's not an opinion. That's not some self imposed penance. It's just fact. Cold and hard as the ice outside.

 

It turns out that doesn’t matter.

 

It turns out his resolve is worth shit.

 

When he passes the room she’s sleeping in, he hears her footsteps on the creaky floors, the sound of some shuffling and then a light coming on under the door before going off again.

 

And he’s going to leave it. He is. Karen Page is better off without him in her life. That’s simply a fact. The living and the dead were never meant to be together.  

 

But none of that matters when he hears a half choked sob, none of that matters when that sob turns into a longer whimper and he hears her sit down heavily on the bed. He doesn’t need to see her to know she’s hunched over, elbows resting on her knees and that she’s pinching the bridge of her nose.

 

He knows then that he’s done. He knows he can’t die with this thing hanging between them like a shadow. He can’t die with another regret. And while Karen Page might not be the biggest regret of his life, she comes close. She’s come closer than she knows.

 

And he has to try.

 

He sighs, puts his hand on the pitted wood and pushes the door open. It creaks softly on its hinges and scuffs on the floor like it's slightly too big for the doorway.

 

She turns to look at him as he steps inside and she’s exactly as he imagined. _Exactly_. Right down to the cold starlight streaming through the window and glinting off her hair and making it shimmer like pale gold; right down to the thin black singlet straps over her shoulders, the lace trim of her underwear and the gooseflesh on her skin.

 

And then her eyes. Huge and glassy. Bloodshot, but even in the dim light they flash like diamonds and pin him to the spot. His breath catches in his throat and his limbs feel like lead, weighed down with all the guilty blood he’s shed and all the innocent lives he’s taken. And then her. Always her. Existing like him, somewhere between prodigal and priest. Except right now - right in this moment those lines aren’t blurred anymore. He knows which one he is.

 

He has to make amends. And he has to pay that penance even though he has no idea what that is.

 

Until he does.

 

“I’ll leave,” he says. “Just tell me to go.”

 

He will. He doesn’t want to make it worse. But maybe she doesn’t want to either. Or maybe she does. He’s not sure which one is better in the grander scheme of things.

 

For a long moment, she seems undecided and he thinks this might be the last time he speaks to her ever again and the thought is like poison in his blood. But then she shakes her head and takes a deep breath, holds out a hand and her skin turns almost silver in the moonlight.

 

“No,” she says. “Stay, please.”

 

_My girl, my sweet sweet, dangerous girl._

 

She’s not angry - he’s not sure she ever was. Or maybe she’s just realised she doesn’t want it to end with this, maybe she just wants to make the best of what little time they have.

 

It’s a good thought. A good, terrifying thought. But he’s not a coward. Not like this at least.

 

He can do this. He can make it as right as it can be.

 

He takes one step, then another. He feels like he’s lurching across the floor but he isn’t. Objectively he knows his movements are smooth and fast because it’s no time at all and he’s threading his fingers through hers and lowering himself onto the bed next to her. And he doesn’t even think about it when he slides his arm around her shoulders and pulls her close, putting his lips to her temple and hushing her softly.

 

Her skin is smooth and chilly and her head rests in the curve of his neck, but her breath is warm and when her hands snake around his middle, she holds him tighter than anyone’s ever held him in his whole life.

 

“I feel it,” she says quietly. “I feel it just as much as you do.”

 

“I know,” he says. “I know.”

 

They don’t lie.

 

And then she sobs, and he does too.


	3. Chapter 3

_"As if you were on fire from within.  
The moon lives in the lining of your skin." _

~ Pablo Neruda, _Ode to a Naked Beauty_

 

Later - much, much later - he doesn’t ask when he lays her down on the bed, doesn’t ask when he slips in next to her, wipes at the tears on her cheeks and waits while she does the same for him.

 

The blankets are dark and heavy as the shadows, but even so she seems to shine like a diamond. It’s always hurt to look at her - right from the first time he really saw her - but now - today, on this day to end all days - it feels like delicate torture intended to make a man lose his mind piece by piece.

 

He guesses on some level he’s lucky he doesn’t have that long left. He’d rather be dead than a raving lunatic except, considering that she would be the catalyst to drive him to madness, that’s not true. She’s always had the ability to make him feel every single incompatible emotion all at once.

 

_(You do this and I am done. You’re dead to me)_

 

_(When am I gonna see you again?)_

 

_(You stay, please)_

 

_(You stay away from me. You get away from this thing.)_

 

_(I want there to be an after)_

 

_(Go. Go on now)_

 

It’s too much to think about, so he doesn’t.

 

She frames his face, thumbs running across his cheekbones, fingernails scraping his scalp, making him groan and sending a shower of sparks down his spine. His hand finds her hip, fingers venturing into the gap where her singlet and underwear don’t meet. She’s soft and smooth, all cream and silk and, when he presses down harder than he should, she shivers and her skin prickles, and he swears he feels it too.

 

He’s starting to think he was wrong about that slow dive into insanity. He’s starting to think that for the first time, he’s underestimated what Karen Page can do to him.

 

A kiss on his forehead, and then she’s tracing the curve of his shoulder, the muscles of his arm, fingers playing across the bumps of his ribs one by one.

 

He wants to do the same to her. _God_ , he wants to do so many things to her.

 

But then she stops, shifts away from him ever so slightly so that she’s no longer pressed against him and, despite those heavy blankets, he feels a small chill.

 

_What is it my girl? Tell me what you’re thinking. I want to know. I want to know everything._

 

But she doesn’t let him know - not immediately at least. Karen Page has always played her cards close to her chest and there’s no reason - not even his impending demise - to change that now.

 

Instead, she’s silent for a long time, watching him as he watches her, lips parted and eyes sparkling, looking at him like he’s so much more than he really is.

 

Maria used to look at him like that.

 

He pushes that thought away because she isn’t Maria. She isn’t. She never will be.

 

She’s _not_ Maria. She’s just everything else.

 

He cups the side of her head, tangles his fingers through her hair. It’s smooth as silk and the moonlight catches it again and makes her look like she’s something almost otherworldly. And maybe she is. Maybe she can be the most real thing in his life too. These are not contradictions anymore. These are not things that matter.

 

She turns her head, kisses his palm and then looks at him again.

 

“Is it true?” she asks softly. “Tell me if it’s true.”

 

She doesn’t need to provide context. He thinks maybe with them there never really was a need.

 

He takes a deep breath, glances at the ceiling and then outside. It’s snowing again. It’s pretty like he remembers.

 

Pretty snow and then he dies. There is some goodness left.

 

He runs a thumb over her brow, licks his lips.

 

“You don't need to ask,” he says. “You already know.”

 

She nods slowly, lifts her hand to grip his forearm.

 

“Yeah… I did,” she says. “I just thought you… we…that you still needed time. I thought you needed to be left alone, but that's not right is it?”

 

He shakes his head. “No, it's been like this for a very long time now.”

 

Too long. Long before he even knew it was true.

 

She heaves a bit like it hurts to hear, catches a sob in the back of her throat and he wants to hush her but he doesn’t. He doesn’t get to pretend he didn’t cause the pain. He doesn’t get to pretend he’s even remotely innocent.

 

“Why didn't you ever say anything?”

 

And she sounds so earnest he almost wants to laugh. He doesn't though. He thinks it would hurt her and, even though he’s never wanted to do that and even though soon she'll be free of him, there's no reason to do it now.

 

Still, the way she asks, that hint of something that is both hope and melancholy in her voice, tells him that she genuinely thought there was a chance and they could have been something.

 

Him and her. The dead man and the girl who wouldn’t let him die.

 

There could have been a lot of love and laughter before the end. He only has himself to blame for squandering that.

 

It was a good fantasy, even if that's all it was.

 

“Because it didn't matter.”

 

Her fingers tighten on his arm. “How can you even say that?”

 

“Because it's true…” he rubs his thumb over the curve of her ear. “Karen… someone like you…” he almost smiles at the absurdity of it,”... someone like you doesn't need what I am…”

 

“Maybe you could have let me be the judge of that…”

 

“... someone like you can do so much, you have everything…”

 

“Except I don't...”

 

“Karen…”

 

“No, it’s true,” she shifts under the blankets, moves closer to him so that he can feel the cotton of her singlet on his torso again, smell her soap heavy in the night air. “I don't have what I want and I can't have it.” She blinks tears out of her eyes. “You think I've got the world at my fingertips. That all I need to do is reach out and take it and then hold on. This is what you thought was going on with Matt. But it's not true. You _think_ you know, but you don't. You think you and I can't work, that it's impossible, that I can't handle what you are and what this is… but that isn't true either. Not even a little bit. I've always known you and I've always accepted you for who and what you are.”

 

Somewhere in the darkness it feels like there is a shard of light piercing his skull. It's as painful as the bullet but there's a promise of europhia on the other side. And he fights with everything he has in him not to take it.

 

She lifts both her hands to cradle his face again and even though her skin is still cold, she burns him. “... and it does matter. It’s always mattered.”

 

“Jesus Christ, Karen. Jesus Christ,” his voice is low, strained. “I couldn’t put that on you.”

 

“But you already did.”

 

“Karen…”

 

“You did, and it’s okay. I took it,” she stops, glances over his shoulder at the snow outside and then back to him.

 

Deep breath, hard swallow and he wonders what is so difficult to say, what’s so important, because he knows it must be. He braces himself, hand tightening on her.

 

“I took it,” she repeats. “The good and the bad … because you’re not you without both of those things and I wanted it… I wanted you.”

 

_I wanted you._

 

It’s a whisper, a firm whisper, but a whisper nonetheless. Still, it feels like her voice is everywhere. He can hear it loud and booming in his head, feel it on his skin, lifting the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck. He can feel it between his fingers, under his nails.

 

He can feel it in the bullet in his brain.

 

He chokes, tries to drag air into his lungs but he can feel her whispering there too and for a second, he can’t breathe and he’s sure his heart has stopped beating too - she’s climbed inside it and squeezed it, killed it from the inside out, and then the outside in.

 

_I wanted you._

 

_Oh god, I wanted you too._

 

Somewhere he registers that she’s coming towards him, that her lips are soft and her tongue is sweet, and his hand - through absolutely no instruction of his own - is gripping the back of her head and dragging her into him so he can arch his mouth over hers.

 

And god, _oh god_ , she tastes so good. She feels so good too as her body slots against his, tight as a puzzle piece as her thigh finds its way over his hip. He’s vaguely aware that he might have put it there, vaguely aware that his other hand is locked around the back of her knee and holding her in place. Vaguely aware that this is all happening way too fast and way too slow at the same time.

 

But then she’s gripping his hair too, and her tongue is sliding out of his mouth and she kissing his cheeks and his nose, his brow - and it’s exactly how Maria used to do it. _Exactly_. The pressure of her lips, the places she lingers, even the route she takes across his skin are all the same.

 

 _Exactly_.

 

And exactly different too.

 

Not Maria. Not her. Just everything else. And that means something that he doesn’t have and never will have the words to describe whether he lives another second or a hundred years.

 

It doesn’t matter.

 

And he’s still not breathing. He’s still not breathing and that’s more than okay.

 

Hand flexing behind her knee and he rolls over, pushes her down into the pillows, insinuates himself between her thighs where she’s warm and soft.

 

A moment. A moment to lose himself in her. A moment that maybe she can lose herself right back.

 

And he _knows_ he needs to stop - they _both_ need to stop - but his blood is roaring in his head and running hot as magma through his veins. And she’s so smooth and so sweet and the little gasp that escapes her lungs as he presses down on her, breaks his heart into a million pieces and mends it in the same moment.

 

And he’s still not breathing. He doesn’t think he’s ever going to breathe again.

 

He is kissing her though. Doing to her what she did to him, lips brushing her cheeks, her nose, the beauty mark near her mouth, the others on her neck and shoulders.

 

More time. _God,_ he wishes they had more time.

 

More time to love, more time to live.

 

More time to _breathe_.

 

Her fingers rake through his hair again, twisting in the tight curls which he’s let grow longer, tugging at him and sending a another cascade of sparks down his spine. Underneath him, she arches, thighs rising over his hips and he feels the roughness of her bandage as it slides across his skin. For a second that pulls him back into reality, reminds him of where he’s been and where he’s going, and why he’s going there at all.

 

A shard of looking glass. A mirror used to cut her and hurt her, and send him a message.

 

Dying’s easy, except when it’s not. Except for those who stay behind.

 

_(We don’t feel it like you do. We can’t)_

 

Except they can...

 

Kisses. So many kisses.

 

He forces the thought from his mind, gives himself up to the taste of her skin, hands finding hers and pushing them into the pillows above her head - and around him it feels like all that godforsaken reality just disappears and leaves only the two of them behind.

 

The dead man and the girl who wanted him to live.

 

The dead man and the girl who, in her own way, is killing him all the same.

 

He makes a final attempt at retaining some sense of sanity when she pulls her hands out of his and reaches for the buttons on his jeans, fingers nimble and fast as she undoes them before he can stop her.

 

But then he does stop her, grabbing her wrists and holding them tight enough to bruise.

 

This is such a bad idea.

 

This is the best idea in the world.

 

“Karen…”

 

He has no idea what he’s going to say.

 

_Then don't say anything. You don’t need to._

 

He's not sure if that's Maria's voice or his own. He’s not sure it matters one way or another.

 

“Karen, what are we… we shouldn’t...”

 

That’s a lie. That’s nothing but the biggest bald-faced lie that has ever come out of his mouth and instantly he’s trying to bite it back, swallow it and pretend it never happened.

 

“Yes,” she says breathlessly. “We should.”

 

And then her hands are out of his and she’s kissing him everywhere again, rising up to plant frantic, staccato kisses on his brow and cheeks, his jaw and shoulders, and her lips close over a spot on his neck that makes him quiver.

 

No thinking. No breathing. Just her and her hands and her mouth.

 

“This is going to complicate things,” he rumbles as he buries his face in her hair, fingers groping for the hem of her singlet.

 

“Let it,” she whispers into his throat, “We've never been easy anyway.”

 

~~~

 

She turns his world inside out and upside down, rips his heart out through his chest and stamps on it. She climbs inside him, gets into his blood and bones, breaks him in half, shatters him and then kisses him like that can fix him.

 

And it does.

 

_Oh my god Karen, Oh my god._

 

He learns quickly that the laws of physics don’t apply here in this small place they’ve created in a room in a cabin at the end of the world. There’s no reason they should. His life hasn’t made sense for a long time now, so this added layer of the universe itself slowly coming undone isn’t really surprising.

 

Karen Page is a contradiction: desperation and glacial slowness mixed with a roughness and tenderness he can’t even begin to define and doesn’t need to.

 

She likes his hands on her. She likes them moving in slow, gentle strokes across her body, so light that sometimes he’s not even sure he's touching her - and the only thing that tells him he is, is the gooseflesh rippling across her skin. She also likes his fingers digging hard enough into her hips to leave little half-moon bruises on her, and when he uses all his strength to pin her down and hold her still, teeth snapping at her throat like a feral dog that wants love but has no idea how to ask for it. 

 

She treats him the same. Her touches and kisses are gentle, like she treasures everything that he is and wouldn’t ever want to do anything to make him think otherwise, and then her fingernails scrape over his back and shoulders and he’s sure she draws blood in the same moment.

 

He doesn’t care if she does. He’s always been willing to bleed for her.

 

The one constant throughout is her sweetness - her mouth, her skin, her words… the space between her legs where he drowns.

 

He never really needed to breathe anyway.

 

The dead man and the girl who keeps him alive.

 

He makes her come twice with his tongue and once with his fingers and when she’s trembling and her breath is coming out in hard, uneven gasps, he straddles her thighs, hand closing over her hip.

 

“You sure?”

 

He doesn’t need to ask. He never needed to ask. He knows that now. But he’s a gentleman and she’s a lady and even if he didn’t love her more than anything in the whole world, there’s an etiquette to these things. He needs to be sure; she needs to be sure.

 

And she is.

 

She leans up, teeth scraping over his ribs, lips ghosting over his nipple, and all he can see is the crown of her head and her hair spilling over them like gossamer. “Now, Frank, do it now.”

 

What follows is something he doesn’t think he could have conceived of by himself, no matter how long he spent imagining it. She’s exquisite in the kind of way he imagines an obsidian blade would feel flaying his skin and yet, at the same time, she’s so warm and comforting he thinks he could hide inside her forever and never need anything else. And when she lifts her thighs over his hips and whispers in his ear in a voice so breathless and delicate to fuck her as hard as he can, he knows he did finally lose his mind and nothing in the whole world could ever make him want it back.

 

And then he's inside her and she's gripping him so hard that he genuinely thinks his ribs might break and she'll crush every bone in his body and grind it into dust, turn him into some kind of powder and lose him in the snow.

 

And then soft kisses. Always the goddamn kisses.

 

She comes at almost the same time as he does, body arching like a bow underneath his, veins in her neck standing out starkly against her skin and his name tumbling out of her mouth like a terrible truth she’s been keeping for years.

 

Somewhere he realises he’s doing the same.

 

_Karen. Karen. Oh god, Karen. Here are my secrets. Here are all my secrets. Have them. Keep them safe._

 

_Please..._

 

He lets out a sob as he collapses on top of her, spent and exhausted. His body and mind don't feel tethered to the world or to each other. All that seems constant is her and the smell of her skin and the feel of her like a sanctuary underneath him. 

 

She's hushes him, rubs his back and shoulders, soothes the beautiful, terrible marks she left on him, whispers nonsense to him that he doesn't think is nonsense at all. He listens to the air going out of her lungs, remembers he has to at least try and breathe too. He tries. He fails. It doesn’t seem like an issue worth worrying about. 

 

His heart is fuller than it’s been in a very long time.

 

Afterwards, there’s no point at which it feels like one encounter ends and the next starts; it slows for a time, most of the roughness disappears but none of the desperation. When he can move again, he rolls onto his side, takes her with him, presses his lips to her face, scatters kisses on her throat and her breasts. He gets to trace the shape of her again with those featherlight touches she likes so much, finds her creases and curves, her dips and folds, and she does the same to him, fingers following his lines, mouth learning his scars, opening them up and making them feel like fresh wounds.

 

And finally, when the sheets are already stained with them but his whole body feels like it’s still on fire, she climbs into his lap and reaches between them, holds his cock so tight that he arches into her fist, and then lowers herself down onto him with a soft sigh.

 

She looks at him for a long time in the dim light, fingers running over his face, mouth soft and gentle on his. Butterfly kisses. Butterfly kisses and the slowest circling of her hips until she’s absolutely still and there’s nothing in the whole world but her eyes.

 

This is important. This is one of the most important moments of his life.

 

“I love you too,” she says firmly. “I love you so much.”

 

_Jesus Christ, Karen, Jesus Christ._

 

He pulls her close, hand heavy between her shoulder blades and face buried in her throat. Her body feels like a shield between him and whatever tomorrow is going to bring and she invites him lose himself in it again. Or maybe he asks for the privilege.

 

Either way, he does.

 

Either way, she does too.

  



	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, I don't want to jinx it but I feel like I have my writing groove back a little.
> 
> Also my babies are in love okay. They are in love. 
> 
> Again, I have only seen the Kastle episode of season 2 so I can't discuss the rest of the season.
> 
> Please remember this fic is set after season 1.
> 
> Anyway, let's go see where Frank and Karen are as morning looms.

_“I took life, and I faced her and kissed her,”_

— Pablo Neruda, _Letter to Miguel Otero Silva, in Caracas_

 

At some point he starts breathing again. He's not sure when it happens exactly but suddenly he's aware that his breathing has matched hers and his heart is beating like a steady drum under her hand.

 

He wonders if she did that. If she’s inside him now and it’s because of her that his heart and lungs are working - if it’s because of her that he’s so much more than the dead man he likes to pretend he is.

 

And then he doesn’t need to wonder. Then he just knows.

 

Karen Page is magic. Of that he’s 100 percent sure.

 

They lie in silence for a long time. It feels like it should be strained and, maybe in any other situation it would be, but this isn’t. It’s his last night on earth and they can do whatever they want to.

 

Also - and he has to factor this in as a very important aspect of what’s just happened -  it’s Karen. And while she’s spent the last few months turning him inside out and upside down, bringing back feelings he thought were forever lost to him and basically fucking him up in the best possible way, she has the power to calm him.

 

To soothe him.

 

She takes his rage and she hides it, finds room for it.

 

She’s doing it now, head resting on his shoulder, hand tangled with his over his heart, like a reminder for it to keep beating.

 

“What do you want?” she asks after a while. “What do you want to do now?”

 

It's a simple question and like most simple questions it has so many answers, none of which are simple at all.

 

_What does he want to do? God, so many things._

 

_I want to be here with you. I want to hold you and kiss you and protect you. I want to fuck you until we’re both nothing but a loose wreck of flesh and a tangle of bones. I want to protect you and love you and breathe with you. Live with you the best way I know how._

 

He doesn’t say any of this, but he does think about her question. He wants to be truthful, he wants to answer it with integrity and intent. He suspects she wouldn’t let him get away with anything less.

 

He presses his lips to her hair again, draws her close. She twists her fingers in hers and he does the same, running his thumb over her knuckles, threading them and then unthreading them, turning her hand over to trace the meat of her palm.

 

“Just talk to me,” he says. “Just tell me everything about you.”

 

She lifts her head from his shoulder and he catches a flash of moonlight in her eyes. They're glassy with tears but there’s something else there too. Something that looks like hope and fear all rolled into one.

 

She frowns. “Everything?”

 

_Everything._

 

He touches her cheek. “Yeah, as much as you can.”

 

She huffs gently and he feels her breathe warm against his neck and then seconds later the heat of her lips on his. He doesn’t think. He doesn’t wonder. He just lets her kiss him for as long as she wants.

 

“You might not like it,” she says when she pulls back.

 

“Doesn’t matter if I like it,” he says. “I like you.”

 

He doesn’t even bother to consider how feeble that sounds in trying to describe the depth of what he feels for her.

 

She shivers a little as his fingers trace the bumps of her spine all the way up to her neck and down again.

 

“Alright,” she says. “But you have to ask, and you have to answer too. I’m not doing this alone, okay?”

 

“Ain’t about me.”

 

She shakes her head, puts her lips on his again and soon he’s shivering too.

 

“Yeah, it is,” she says when she pulls away. “It is.”

 

He doesn’t know why he even tries. There’s nothing on earth he can deny her.

 

“You might not like it either.”

 

She smiles wanly. “But I like you.”

 

He suspects there’s about as much hiding behind those words for her too.

 

For a while he says nothing. He wants to choose his questions carefully. He wants to choose the best ones. He’s acutely aware that time is limited again and that they’ve lost that space where it doesn’t matter. And yet, he always knew what he was going to ask - it seems ludicrous that he would ask anything else.

 

He touches her hair, tucks it behind her ear, runs his knuckles across her jaw.

 

_Precious girl. Precious, brave, stubborn, wonderful girl._

 

“That day in the hospital?” he asks. “Why did you stay? You didn’t know me. You didn’t need to. Coulda left me there to rot. Probably should have.”

 

That’s true. If she had, she wouldn’t be here now. The Blacksmith wouldn’t have tried to murder her. She wouldn’t have become a reporter and Lewis wouldn’t have strapped a fucking bomb to himself and her. She’d be safe, most likely with Murdock, living that ordinary life, doing ordinary things. She wouldn’t be here with him in a bed at the end of the world with Billy Russo’s scars on her body.

 

None of that seems to bother her though. Her instinct for self-preservation seems just as bad as his.

 

She bites her lip, runs a thumb over his brow, seems to consider her answer very carefully before she speaks.

 

“I guess I saw something in you.”

 

“Yeah? Like what?”

 

She looks away, takes a breath so deep and shuddering that he swears he feels it inside his own lungs.

 

“Like me.”

 

It’s not that he didn’t expect it but it still hits him like a punch in the gut, knocks all the air out of him and has him tightening his arm around her and pulling her fingers to his lips so he can kiss them.

 

But when he speaks his voice is surprisingly calm and soft to his ears. Surprisingly steady too. She’s strong for him and maybe it’s time he started being that for her too.

 

“Not your first rodeo.”

 

It's just a statement of fact but she nods anyway.

 

“No. I had a couple of rodeos.”

 

“Tell me about them.”

 

She shakes her head. “No, it's my turn now.”

 

“Is it now?”

 

“Yes. You have to follow the rules, Frank.”

 

He barks out a laugh, scrapes his fingernails down her back and rubs at the gooseflesh he leaves in his wake. He doesn't think either of them are very good at following rules.

  

“Okay,” he says. “Hit me.”

 

“What did you want when you came back from Kandahar?”

 

It’s a strange question and not one he expected. And yet, at the same time, he can’t think of anything else she would have asked. It _feels_ like her, like it’s right in some unfathomably wrong way. And like her, it hides under a guise of sweetness and gentleness, innocence even, unless one knows where to look. But he does know where to look, and he sees it for what it is: heavy, fraught, articulate in a way that slices right into his being and cuts away all the bullshit.

 

Maybe it doesn’t _feel_ like her - maybe it just _is_ her.

 

He takes a breath, fingers closing around hers. Her knuckles are scraped and scabbed, but her fingernails have been scrubbed clean with such incredible fastidiousness that her skin is still pink and raw; if he didn’t know better, he might be asking some more difficult questions about what exactly Billy Russo had done to her. The thought makes him feel like his insides are too big for his skin and he has to swallow back a mouthful of bile and grit his teeth.

 

She frowns and he brings her hand to his lips, presses a kiss to each scrape, each bruise.

 

“Frank?”

 

He shakes his head. _Don’t think about it. Don’t. It didn’t happen. It’s not true no matter how much his broken mind likes to tell him it is. She’s here and she’s safe and tomorrow it’ll all be over and he’ll have done his penance._

 

He dies. She lives.

 

Fair deal.

 

But she’s still frowning at him and he remembers that he needs to answer her. That there’s another alternative world of pain that she’s offering him, and he’ll take that over the thought of her ever being hurt.

 

He can do it. For her, he can do anything.

 

“Just live, I guess,” he looks up at the ceiling. “Be with Maria and my kids. Be a dad, a husband. They wanted me home.”

 

“And you? Did you want to be home?”

 

He nods slowly.

 

“I was missing so much. I leave my baby girl and she’s still in diapers and when I come back and she’s playing with plastic dinosaurs and lego. What’s next? Boys and Youtube? Prom? College? Junior too; one minute it’s swingball and then it’s Xbox and WWE… we couldn’t go on like that…”

 

“There’s more though.”

 

He threads his fingers through hers, takes a deep breath.

 

“Yeah…”

 

Lips on his brow, hand on his heart. It’s beating because she wants it to. It’s beating because she demands it.

 

“You don’t have to talk about it.”

 

He shakes his head.

 

“No. It’s okay.” It is. It doesn’t matter even though right now, it’s the most important thing in the world. “Maria was worried about me… us. Said I was leaving parts of myself behind whenever I came home, that they were losing me.”

 

“Were you?”

 

“Yeah… Maria read me like a book. She knew us better than I did, knew I needed to be home with my family so that it didn’t get worse... she knew…” he struggles a little with the words. “She knew I wasn’t whole.”

 

She takes a ragged breath then, one that almost sounds like a gasp. It’s louder than she intends and he knows he’s rattled her even though he’s fairly sure this isn’t a surprise.

 

He draws her close, kisses her hair.

 

“Do you think you could have stayed home? Would that have made you happy? Whole?”

 

He shrugs. “I dunno. All I know is I was willing to try. Sometimes there are only choices and they ain’t good or bad, they just are. You need to know what you would sacrifice and then you do it and you live with it. You have to.

 

“They were always my first choice… always.”

 

They still are.

 

_I’m coming home Maria. I’m coming home._

 

That doesn’t feel as easy to imagine as it should. It doesn't feel as easy to imagine as it did only hours ago when he sat outside in the cold with only carrion birds for company.

 

She runs a finger down his cheek, bites her bottom lip.

 

“Did you want another--”

 

_Oh god, please no. Not that._

 

“Hey, it's my turn,” he interrupts and it might be his imagination, but she seems almost relieved to have the moment taken away from her.

 

“Okay.”

 

Fingertips trailing up her arm. She’s so soft and smooth and again he hates himself for the time he’s wasted.

 

“Tell me about your first rodeo.”

 

And just like that she’s tense again, body going stiff and hard against his, fingers digging into him like little claws.

 

“You don’t want to hear about that.”

 

“I do.”

 

She shakes her head. “Not the first. Not yet. Maybe later.”

 

There’s something very earnest in her voice. Something that sounds like begging and promising at the same time. She’ll tell him. She’ll even tell him now if he pushes her, but she wants time. And even though time is something he doesn’t have a lot of, he nods, pulls her close.

 

“Okay,” he says. “What about the second. Can you tell me about that?”

 

Another shuddering breath and she threads her fingers through his, pulls his hand to her lips.

 

She’ll give him this. She’ll show him this part of her darkness. She’ll let him live in it with her and part of him is thrilled at the idea.

 

“I killed a man…”

 

Yeah, he knew that. A woman like Karen Page doesn’t carry a .38 in her purse for shits and giggles.

 

“…he deserved it.” she continues. “He was a friend of Wilson Fisk. He threatened me, told me he was going to hurt Matt and Foggy… and there was a gun and I… I just… he didn’t think I would, but I did and I...”

 

He tightens his grip on her, kisses her hair.

 

“Shhhh, it’s okay.”

 

“I know it is,” her voice is brittle. “I know.”

 

He thinks she really does know; these aren’t just words. He’s come to realise Karen Page also has a code and while it may not be as dark or as murky as his, nor include even an iota of sadistic pleasure and isn’t fueled by rage, there is a certain pragmatism to it - a hardness about her that both frightens and excites him.

 

It still bothers her though and he gets it. It’s not good to become too comfortable with killing, it’s not good when it’s easy. That’s when you lose yourself, that’s when you leave pieces of who you are behind and your wife ends up with a ticking time bomb in her bed. That’s when you stop being whole, if you were ever whole to begin with. He doesn’t think Karen Page has been whole for a long time either. He thinks maybe she’s like him in that way and he wonders if they’d had more time if they could have cobbled something together out of their broken pieces. It wouldn’t be healing - not exactly - but it could have been _something_.

 

“You did what you had to do,” he says. “Sometimes what you have to do ain’t good.”

 

She’s quiet for a long time after he says that, head back on his shoulder, hand tangled with his over his heart. It beats loudly, steadily. He thinks it’s the loudest thing in the whole world.

 

Except for her voice.

 

“What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?”

 

He should be ready for something like this but he isn’t. It’s her and it’s him and there’s always been something brutal between them; something they call truth and honesty but which transcends the actual meanings of the words. It’s more akin to being able to climb inside one another, find all the dark places and pull at them until they unravel.

 

It’s exquisite. It’s also pure agony.

 

He turns to look at her in the darkness. He thinks of Maria and how even though she knew what he was and who he was, she would have shied away from asking this. He thinks about what that means and what it says about Karen and all the darkness she keeps locked away.

 

 

“God, Karen, what kind of a question is that?”

 

He knows what kind though. He knows exactly what kind.

 

She doesn’t look away. She doesn’t even blink. She just fixes him with that ice blue stare which tells him she expects the whole truth. She wants everything and it won’t make the slightest bit of difference to how she feels about him. And he doesn’t know if that’s the best or the worst thing that has ever happened to him.

 

She tears him apart. He does the same for her.

 

“What is it? I want to know.”

 

He sighs, purses his lips and she moves in close again, puts her arms tight around him.

 

“Don’t worry,” she whispers. “I’ve got you.”

 

She does. She’s got him in every single way she wants him.

 

“Karen, there’s so many.”

 

“Pick one.”

 

He sighs, looks up at the ceiling. Outside a crow screeches and he wonders how much time they have left, how long before that burner phone starts ringing and Billy Russo takes this away from him too.

 

“You know the story,” he says. “I killed men in Kandahar so The Blacksmith could smuggle drugs in the States. Killed Madani’s partner too.”

 

“You didn’t know.”

 

“Doesn’t matter. I did it and that’s why my family is gone. If I wasn’t such a piece of shit…”

 

“No,” she lifts her head from his chest and puts a finger to his lips. “No, not here. Not that.”

 

Her eyes are huge and her mouth is set in a firm line. He knows that look. It’s that stubbornness that he’s long tried to push his way past and succeeded on a few rare occasions. He thinks he will lose this one though. Thinks he might like to try anyway.

 

“It’s true though.”

 

“It’s not. You’re a lot of things Frank Castle. A lot of things that are … difficult and ugly. But ultimately you are good.”

 

“You sure about that?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“You sure you’re not just looking for excuses for what we just did?”

 

The intent isn’t to hurt or judge her but, as the words come out, he hears them ringing with nastiness and a kind of sado-masochism, and he wonders if he’s just blown it. But then she pushes herself up on her elbow and the moonlight is making her body shimmer and shine like marble. She takes his face in both her hands, holds it so that he can’t look anywhere else other than her.

 

“Nothing that you do changes how I feel about you. It doesn’t matter to me if you’re good or bad. It doesn’t matter because I’d still be here no matter what you've done,” she kisses his nose and then his lips, presses her forehead on his. “The only reason I’m saying you’re good is because you are good.”

 

_Jesus Christ Karen. Jesus Christ._

 

He lets out a sob and she pulls him close so he can bury his head in her breasts.

 

“I’ve got you,” she says again, voice quiet and soft now. “I’ve got you and I won’t let go.”

 

~~~

 

Later he wants to ask her the same question. _What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done Karen Page? Tell me about that first rodeo. Tell me what happened before and after. Tell me this secret that you hold so deep and so dear in your broken heart. Tell me why family and loneliness are things you love and hate in equal measure._

 

He starts - tries to find the words to ask her about her ugliness and her darkness. She said she would tell him and he knows if he can get the words out, she will. But it’s hard asking the saints about their sins. It’s hard looking at someone who has saved you from all the things you could be and asking them to show you their unworthiness for the task.

 

She seems to know it too.

 

“I’ll tell you,” she says. “But we don’t have much time.”

 

No, they don’t. Instinctively he knows dawn isn’t very far away at all.

 

“We don’t have to keep doing this,” she continues. ”We can, but we don’t have to.”

 

No, they don’t. They need to pick their battles now. They need to make good choices even they might not be the right ones.

 

“What do you want to do instead?”

 

Kisses. Lots of them. She does the same thing she did earlier; she follows Maria’s path over his face. Maybe it’s not Maria’s path anymore. Maybe it’s just him and his skin and her mouth. Maybe it's just him and her and it can be as different or as similar as it needs to be.

 

After all, she’s not Maria. She’s just everything else.

 

And then she takes his hand and pushes it under the blankets, slides it between her legs where she’s slick and hot.

 

“Jesus Christ, Karen.”

 

He turns to his side, free hand groping for her hip, holding her still as his fingers slide inside her. 

 

“We can choose life now or we can choose death.”

 

His choice. _His._

 

_Please..._

 

She arches her neck, offers him her throat, and he chooses life.

 

~~~

 

There’s another extended period where it seems time stands still. He’s aware that the crows are screeching loudly outside and that there’s a dim light trying to break through into the shadows of the bedroom. But the transition from night to day seems to last a long time and it doesn’t bring any extra urgency to their lovemaking.

 

She takes her time with him. She teases him and tastes him, drives him right to the edge until he’s whimpering and cursing and, when his hand fists in her hair, there’s a moment when he’s not sure whether it’s to pull her up so he can kiss her or to hold her down exactly where she is between his thighs.

 

Somehow the former wins out. Somehow he’s kissing her and tasting her tears and then without thinking, he’s pushing her down into the pillows and slipping inside her like she’s a sanctuary.

 

And he thinks that’s more true than it isn’t.

 

"I feel it," she whispers. "I feel it just as much as you do."

 

When he comes it's like his entire body is being broken apart and put back together. He can’t breathe and he wonders if that’s because she’s in the throes of her own climax and doesn’t have the time or space to worry about keeping his heart beating.

 

No matter. It's low on the list of priorities anyway. Nothing matters, except this.

 

And it’s all going to end soon.

 

_Please… please..._

 

He’s not sure she hears him when he leans in close and chokes out the words he’s been so afraid to admit for so long now, but maybe it's more important that they're said than heard.

 

“I don't want to die, Karen."

 

_I don't want to die._


	5. Chapter 5

_My Love: I love you for your clarity, your dark._

~ Pablo Neruda, _My Ugly Love_

 

But die he must.

 

He's not sure how long they lie there afterwards. It lasts forever and yet it's over in the blink of an eye, and later, when he thinks about it, he realises he doesn't, in fact, remember any measurable passing of time.

 

Instead, there's sensations: the smell of her hair, the smoothness of her thighs, her lips pressing against his throat.

 

His heart beating under her hands.

 

Because she wills it too. Because she doesn't allow it stop.

 

_The dead man and the girl who keeps him alive._

 

But despite this comforting lack of clarity and a mostly insane but briefly held belief that somehow he's escaped the ugly truth the day has to offer, there's a terrible moment when the light from outside becomes impossible to ignore, as do the screeching crows and that strangely fresh, mocking smell of morning. He hears the first signs of movement from the house too - David and Sarah's door opening, the splash of water from the bathroom, the sound of Curt's prosthetic leg on the wooden floors.

 

He doesn't hear Murdock but he guesses that's for the best. He doesn't think Murdock is going to be too happy about this morning either.

 

No matter. Red can deal with his own demons or he can become them, if he hasn't already. It changes nothing - Frank has bigger things to worry about than broken hearts and lost souls.

 

Except maybe now, at the end of it all, that's what he _should_ worry about. Maybe it’s everything that’s left.

 

Either way, he has to move. He has to go.

 

He has to _die_.

 

Karen knows it too.

 

She doesn't say anything as he presses a kiss against the top of her head, runs his knuckles down her cheek and his thumb over her lips and then slowly pushes the blankets off so a rush of cold air licks at their skin and makes them shiver.

 

It feels like losing something he didn't know he had. It feels like he needs to grieve.

 

So he sits on the edge of the bed for a long while, Karen kneeling behind him, hands tracing patterns on his back, circling the bullet holes, tracing the scars, pressing kisses into them, opening them up and healing them in the same moment.

 

Like everything else about the last few hours, it's exquisite. Like everything else about the last few hours, it's agony.

 

He can't let it distract him. He can't let it weaken his resolve any more than it already has.

 

He catches her hand as it snakes over his shoulder, brings it to his lips and kisses each of her knuckles and then her palm.

 

 _I'm sorry, Karen. I'm sorry all we had was this_ . _I'm sorry I've spent so long being a jackass about what was really important._

 

_I'm sorry… And I'm sorry that I don't even want you to forgive me._

 

Kisses. Her skin is smooth and sweet and his fingers dance across the nexus of veins in her wrist. His mouth follows and when she shivers again it has nothing to do with the cold.

 

It would be so easy to get distracted. So easy to lose himself and everything else.

 

He sighs, lets go of her hand and stands. He collects his clothes off the floor, pulls on his jeans, and goes to the window to look out into the snow.

 

Nothing much has changed since the last time he saw the outside world. The snow is heavy and thick on the ground, the crows are inky black marks, the trees are a stark flash of colour against the monochrome background.

 

And somewhere he can't see, Billy Russo is waiting. And he has a little girl who didn't deserve any of this.

 

He runs a hand through his hair, looks back at the bed. Karen's sitting on her heels, blankets draped over her knees, hair falling over her shoulders. She's not crying but there's a kind of desolation on her face that cuts him so deeply, he almost stops breathing again.

 

She wants another way. Karen Page always wants another way. She's always looking for that slim chance where no one gets hurt and everyone gets out alive. It's just who she is and who he is. He tells her he's doing something and she promises him that if they work together they can find an alternative; they can find a way forward.

 

And he turns her down. Every single time, he turns her down.

 

But she's not asking now. She's not begging. She's not making promises. She's just watching him and he has the most disconcerting feeling that maybe she's accepted all this, maybe she has no fight left in her and that breaks his heart because it's not how he wants to leave this. He wants - no... he _needs_ her strong. He needs her stubborn and brave and he needs her to fight, and he doesn't want to be the person who eventually takes that away from her.

 

_And how did you think that was going to work out champ? Every time she gives you an alternative to punishing and murdering and death, you say no. Every time she tries to get in you push her away. And the thing with people is when you keep pushing them sometimes they just go. The worst thing you can do is push a loyal person too far. And you've been pushing her since the day you met her._

 

He wants to imagine that's Maria talking but he knows it isn't. Maria’s been quiet for a long time now - longer than he wants to admit - and this is just him. This is just him and the ridiculous mess of a man he is, running nobly into death when last night he chose life.

 

He leaves destruction in his wake for both the ones he hates and the ones he loves and all he can do is hope they know the difference.

 

He's about to say something - he's not even sure what - when there's a sound of feet shuffling outside followed by a sharp knock on her door.

 

“Karen? Sorry to wake you if you're sleeping but do you know where Frank is? He's not in his room and the phone hasn't rung yet and…”

 

David. Voice not panicked but not calm either.

 

Frank sighs again, and she nods, pulls the covers up under her arms as he goes to the door and opens it a crack.

 

“I'm in here, David.”

 

“Oh.”

 

David’s eyes are tired and his skin is ashen but he has still has the wherewithal to process what he's seeing and his cheeks redden.

 

“I'm sorry,” he says. “I couldn’t find you and…”

 

“I'll be down in a few, David.”

 

“Yeah, yeah, of course. I'm sorry. I didn't mean…”

 

Frank shakes his head. “It’s okay. I'm coming.”

 

David nods, eyes flickering to Karen and then immediately back to Frank.

 

“Look, Frank…” he starts.

 

“David, I said I'd be down,” his voice is harsher than he wants it to be, but he's not ready for another rapid gunfire speech on how he doesn't need to do this. Makes it worse that most of the ammunition is sitting naked in the bed behind him.

 

“Okay. Alright. I didn't mean...” David trails off,  holds up his hands. “You take your time. There's no rush.”

 

Except there is. There's always a rush.

 

He doesn't say anything about that though, simply nods and then closes the door, turns around to look at her again.

 

Her expression hasn't changed. She's still wan and resigned and the red flush he put into her skin an hour ago is fading.

 

Doesn't matter. She's still the most beautiful girl in the world.

 

“Guess the secrets out,” he says lamely.

 

She shrugs. “Don't know if it was that much of a secret.”

 

He gives her a tight smile.

 

She's right. They weren't noisy but he doesn't think they needed to be. Murdock is, after all, the human equivalent of a bat… and a bloodhound, although Frank suspects that's not exactly what she's referring to.

 

“Red will…” he starts and she shakes her head.

 

“Don't. Please. Not that.”

 

 _Okay_ . Okay he won't do that either. He definitely has no right on that account. And the fact is he doesn't know what Red will do. He doesn't know what he _should_ do either. One way or another it isn't his problem or his business.

 

“Okay,” he says.

 

“Okay.”

 

It's really not okay at all. They both know it. They also both know nothing is ever going to be okay again.

 

For a long while he just looks at her and she looks straight back.

 

And then he ducks his head, mouth twisting into a rueful smile.

 

“I'm gonna need a shirt,” he says, glancing at the door and she nods.

 

“Yeah…me too.”

 

He huffs.

 

“See you downstairs?”

 

Another nod and her eyes sparkle with tears. “Yeah.”

 

He takes a step to the door and then another and then he stops, feels her gaze like lasers between his shoulder blades and he turns, goes back to the bed and slides his hand into her hair, kisses her heavily and leans his forehead against hers.

 

_I love you._

 

_I love you. I love you. I love you._

 

_I wish we'd had more time. I wish I'd been better. I wish..._

 

_I wish. I wish. I wish._

 

Maybe there are no wishes left - maybe he's stupid to even want there to be.

 

There is however, another strange warping of time where the light seems to take pity on them and cast them back into darkness and the crows get quiet again.

 

He's not sure how long they stay like that, his head on hers, her hands wrapped around his forearms, nails digging into him like claws and it gives him comfort that he'll die with little her curved bruises on his skin.

 

Her bruises. His pain. It seems only right. He'll take her with him to the grave like all his precious things.

 

When he pulls away it's light again and her tears shimmer like crystals.

 

Maybe they can only live in the dark. Maybe the light never was for them.

 

He kisses her forehead once more, doesn't risk looking at her again, and heads into the cold house and the day that awaits him out in the snow.

 

 

~~~

Undershirt, sweater, socks, boots.

 

Crows screeching. A murder. The shard of looking glass glints in the filmy sunlight.

 

It's blessed.

 

It has her blood on it.

 

_It has her blood on it._

 

~~~

 

She's downstairs already when he gets there, dressed and sitting at the kitchen table with Curtis. The Liebermans are hovering uncertainly, reluctantly sipping coffee that he's fairly sure neither of them are tasting. Murdock is out on the porch, nursing his own cup. His shoulders are tense and he's deliberately not looking inside.

 

If there was room in his heart for it, Frank would feel sorry for him, but there isn't. Not now. He's going to die. He gets to do and feel whatever he wants.

 

“He hasn't called,” Curtis says and as one all of their gazes settle on the phone lying in the middle of the table.

 

It's blue display shines brightly with the time and date and nothing else.

 

“He'll call.” Frank pours himself coffee. “He wants this too bad not to.”

 

At the table, Karen’s breath hitches in her throat and everyone does her the favour of not acknowledging it.

 

This isn't the way he saw a morning after for them going - not that he’s really let himself imagine it in great detail. But there's an etiquette to these things, a rhythm that needs to be maintained. There's the awkwardness that's comforting in its own way. It's gentle touches and sweet kisses that turn filthy; goofy smiles and stolen glances. It's a sly dance that ends up back in the bedroom or the shower. And then there's the stuff that comes after: lunch, walks in the park that are nothing more than a bad distraction for how much they want to get home and do all those terrible, wonderful things all over again. It’s underwear on the floor and rumpled sheets, it's flesh slapping on flesh and teeth on skin, nails scraping over muscle and kisses that drown.

 

She deserves so much better than a house full of knowing looks and shitty coffee. She deserves so much more than one brooding suitor caught up in his own demons and another who's ending what they have before it even truly begins.

 

And ten points to the person who can tell them apart.

 

No one says much more. He finishes his coffee and then pours another, goes to stand behind her and puts a  heavy hand on her shoulder, squeezes so he can feel the smooth muscle under her skin and the hard notches of her collarbones. Her hand comes up to cover his, fingers tracing the bumps of his knuckles.

 

_Okay?_

 

_Okay._

 

No. Not okay at all.

 

Never okay.

 

Never ever okay.

 

They all stay like that for a very long time. Silent, except for the crows. Still, except for the snow falling outside.

 

The light changes from dark to sombre, sombre to light, the weak sun creeping higher into the sky, not strong enough to stop the snow and ice. Not strong enough to stop what's coming.

 

David makes more coffee. They drink more coffee.

 

Sarah cries in the corner and Curtis keeps looking like he's about to say something and then biting it back.

 

Murdock broods on the porch.

 

And Karen holds him and the whole world in her hand.

 

He lets it happen. He lets himself feel it. He lets himself drown in the warmth of her and imagine it keeps him safe. Last night he thought of her body as a shield between him and the morning. Today he thinks of her hand on his as a commitment to it. It makes him strong. It keeps him safe. It changes everything and nothing at all.

 

He doesn't want to die, but he can.

 

He will.

 

In time Murdock comes inside. He's all dark melancholy and barely contained anxiety. Jittery, but without enough coffee inside him to offer it as an excuse if he wanted to.

 

Frank doesn't move and neither does Karen. She said “Don't” and he said “okay” and he thinks this specific scenario falls into that category too.

 

Murdock doesn't say anything, but he knows. Then again, he's always known.

 

_(You love her too…)_

 

_Yes Red, yes I do. So I guess the next step is taking the next part of my own advice._

 

_(So love her.)_

 

He wishes of was that easy.

 

_(We've never been easy)._

 

He squeezes her shoulder again and she leans into him, the back of her head against his belly, hair caught on the rough material of his sweater. He bends down to press a kiss into her hair, sees the sheer desolation in both Sarah and David's eyes as he does. But he doesn't care. This is for him and her. For them. For all the things they'll never have.

 

And as his lips touch her and he feels himself start to lose the world around him, the phone suddenly lights up and the shrill sounds of the carousel themed ringtone blares out through the tinny speaker.

 

He doesn't stop - he doesn't let it distract him.  He kisses her anyway. They deserve that much.

 

And then he picks up the phone and holds it to his ear.

  


~~~

 

He's overheating. That's the first thing he notices. Despite the snow outside and the fact that the house is chilly, he can feel sweat collecting in the small of his back, soaking into his shirt, running down his legs. The world is close and small and Karen's eyes and Billy's voice are the only things in it.

 

His breath is coming out in short, sharp gasps and not for the first time he wonders if that's how he copes with a sudden rush of adrenalin or if that's how he creates it.

 

 _Berserker_. The word comes to him unbidden. A warrior. One who fights in a trace-like rage. Maybe that's what he is.

 

Maybe that's what he always was.

 

The phone call was off from the moment he heard Billy's voice. There was something in it, something meaner than it should have been. Something sly and smug in a way that felt extreme even for someone as far gone as Billy Russo.

 

“Is Karen there?” he’d asked.

 

_Don't say her name. Don't you dare say her name. You are not worthy._

 

“She is.”

 

“Go upstairs,” he'd said. “Go, and take her with you. I don't want the rest of your posse of morons involved.”

 

“What do you want, Bill? Stop with the games.”

 

“I want you to go upstairs. I want you to take Karen with you.”

 

So he went upstairs. He took Karen with him.

 

Door closed. Shard of looking glass glinting like crystal. Crows frolicking outside in the snow.

 

_Join in our murder. You're one of us._

 

She sat on the bed. It's neat and clean. Hospital corners. Nothing like the rumpled mess in her room.

 

She's not one of them. And this place isn't for her either.

 

“Okay, now what do you want?”

 

There was a long silence on the other side of the phone, one deep breath and then another.

 

“What do _you_ want, Frank?”

 

“I want that little girl back. Everything else is just details.”

 

“I'm glad to hear that.”

 

_Yeah asshole. Yeah I know when I've been beaten._

 

There was another long silence. So long in fact that he’d started to wonder if Billy had just given up and walked away, left, never to be seen again.

 

“Bill?”

 

Silence.

 

“Bill, are you still there?”

 

“Yes, yes, I’m here.”

 

“What do you-”

 

“It's quite a thing...” Billy mused. “...having you like this. The big, bad Punisher… I could ask anything… do anything… and you'd agree to it. It's... it's quite a feeling.”

 

Frank rolled his eyes, clicked his jaw. “Have your feelgood moment on your own time.”

 

“You never did know how to have fun.”

 

“Look asshole…”

 

“Shut up, Frank.” Billy's voice went hard again. “You don't give the orders. This is my show and you're just a part of it and you'll do what I tell you.”

 

“Let me talk to Leo.”

 

“Oh for Christ's sake. You don't listen.”

 

“Come on, you know how this works. I ain't giving you anything unless I know she's alive. We've done this dozens of times. You _know_ how it goes.”

 

Another long silence. There was shuffling in the background and then Billy was back on the phone.

 

“Okay,” his voice sounded calm again. Amiable even. “Okay, I'll give you that, but I'm going to need a little something from you too…”

 

“What?”

 

“I get to talk to Karen.”

 

He'd known this was coming. Billy Russo's ability to find and press on the wound that hurts the most has always been his greatest asset. Doesn't matter if it's physical or emotional, he finds it and prods at it, opens it up until it's gaping and angry, and you're incapable of thinking about anything else.

 

“Like hell you do.”

 

“I ain't asking. That's the deal… come on, you know she's only alive because I didn't want her dead…”

 

“Bullshit.”

 

Despite himself he’d looked at her then. She'd narrowed her eyes, mouthed the word “What?” and he shook his head and looked away.

 

“I just want to say hello. We didn't leave things on a good note, her and I. How’s her leg doing? You see it?”

 

“You piece of shit…”

 

“Is this what we’re resorting to now, Frankie? Name-calling?” Another longish silence and then Billy sighed. “Tell you what, you can even speak to Leo first. No skin off my nose… I mean, I win either way.

 

“The only real question is _who loses_.”

 

He’d let those words hang, didn't go into detail. Didn't need to. _Make a choice, Frank. Make a choice_. But the choice is Leo or Karen and that's not one he can make. But then maybe the choice is just Leo or him, and that's not a choice at all.

 

He doesn’t think Billy would let it be that easy. But then again it's not like there's a lot of options.

 

Deep breath. _Keep it straight. Keep it simple. Don’t make it complicated. It’s just a phone call. It’s not like Billy can reach through the screen and grab her, take her away again. Hurt her..._

 

_Oh god. Oh god._

 

And then Billy had made the decision for him.

 

Leo’s voice on the phone - stressed and scared but not panicked. Not hysterical. She was always the steady one in that family, maybe even steadier than Sarah. Definitely steadier than David.

 

“Pete…? Frank? Frank is that…? He’s got me--”

 

“Sweetheart, We’re coming for you--”

 

“Okay, enough,” Billy said. “Don’t want you filling her head with lies.”

 

“Jesus Christ, Bill, she’s a child.”

 

So was Lisa. So was Junior…

 

These things didn't matter then. They don't matter now either.

 

“My turn,” Billy continued “Put Karen on the phone or this is off. You can tell your friends you blew it because you’re just too damn stubborn. See how that pretty little housewife likes that…”

 

It's all his fault. It's always his fault.

 

“Okay,” he said. “Okay.”

 

He held the phone out to Karen.

 

“He wants to talk to you.”

 

She didn’t even seem shocked and the only outward indication that she was less than comfortable with the arrangement was a slight fluttering of her hand as she took the phone out of his hands.

 

She’d looked at him sternly and then she’d nodded, short and sharp, and put the phone to her ear, hair falling over her cheek so it was difficult to make out her expression.

 

And he’d just stood there, hands in his pockets, listening to her speak in short, clipped sentences.

 

Helpless.

 

_Yes. No. No. Yes. No. You wouldn't understand. Why? Because you can't. No. No. Yes. I'll do it. Yes._

 

And then she was done. She took the phone away from her ear and put it on the bed next to her. The screen was blank and the light caught it so he can see their combined fingerprints scattered on its smooth surface

 

“What did he say?” He couldn't even try and make his voice sound even and measured and it just came out as angry snarl, something more animal than human.

 

_Jesus Christ, Karen, don't leave me hanging._

 

But she did. She _did_ leave him hanging. Like everything else - like her first rodeo and all the other things she feels the need to hide from him - she would tell him in her own time.

 

She stared at the floor for a few seconds and then squared her shoulders, took a breath and looked him in the eye.

 

“He wants me to come with you. Says he'll hand Leo over to me and no one else. Says he wants a guarantee you'll behave and I'm it...”

 

And that's when everything came crashing down.

 

_Berserker…_

 

A warrior who fights in a trance-like rage.

 

He's overheating. 

 

There's an excruciating pain in his head, fire searing through the bullet still lodged in his brain, clouding his vision until there's no room and no Karen and no snow outside and everything is just a fucking red haze that sits behind his teeth and runs down his throat, fills his lungs and his stomach.

 

This is unthinkable. It's entirely without sense or reason. It's the most terrible thing he felt since the day he woke up and found out his entire life had been lost and all he had left was a rage he didn't know how to contain.

 

_Trance-like._

 

_Berserker._

 

“No--” he manages to grit out. “No--”

 

“Yes.” She cuts him off, eyes harder than diamonds. “Yes.”

 

Somewhere in his head Maria is screaming or maybe that's just him. Maybe it's no one at all and the universe is just letting out a final wail of grief for the death of the last thing he could ever love.

 

He reels, takes a step backwards. This is the worst thing that could have happened. And he can’t help but feel that is exactly _why_ it’s happening at all.

 

Press on the wound that hurts the most. Press it just right and you get whatever you want. It's a final twisted joke, a sick _sayonara_ that throws every last one of his meticulously crafted excuses and reasons to go ahead with this into disarray.

 

It was worth it before, now he’s not so sure. And he hates himself that this is what he’s let it come to.

 

“I can't protect you out there. He's not going to let you walk away. He won't… we can't let this happen…” His words. His voice. Entirely without consequence or meaning. Entirely on autopilot.

 

“Frank,” she is utterly, frighteningly calm.

 

“No! It's my job to look after you. It's my job to protect you. You can't just walk out there. Damnit Karen, I can't keep you and Leo safe, I can't…”

 

He doesn’t know why he’s raging like this. Doesn’t know why it’s directed at her. Doesn’t know why he’s wasting his time and breath. She has as much choice in this whole thing as he does. It’s not like she could have said no and Billy would have just been happy with one less ace up his sleeve. These things seem entirely irrelevant right now.

 

“Me for her. Her for me. That was the deal. That was the goddamn deal,” he punches his fist into his palm, looks out the window at the fucking crows. “And now you… you…”

 

“Frank…” she says again.

 

“We have no weapons. Nothing, and now he’s got you too and all of this was for nothing and…”

 

“Frank!”

 

He cuts himself off as she stands up, choking on his own tears, eyes wide and horrified and completely at odds with the strange cold, hard determination in hers.

 

She comes towards him, positions herself right in front of him - so close he can feel her breath against his face, the sweet scent of her hair and her soap, and underneath that the lingering musky smell of himself on her skin.

 

Palm cool and firm against his face, thumb gliding over his cheekbone. He has the overwhelming desire to turn his head into her hand, and just let himself give into whatever it is she’s offering but she doesn’t let him. She holds him firmly, stares at him until he stops shaking and his breathing starts to sound normal again.

 

Her voice is soft as she says his name and hushes him in the same way he's done to so many people so many times.

 

Deep breath. Deep, deep breath. Oil on water. The calm after a storm.

 

_Hush. Hush now._

 

Deep breath.

 

Somewhere he finds it in himself to look at her. Somewhere he finds that courage he thought he didn’t have anymore to tell her the truth.

 

“I don’t know what to do, Karen,” he says, voice rough and thick. Defeated. “I did, but now I don’t...”

 

She nods, bites her bottom and lip and then reaches behind him to pick up the piece of broken mirror, made both dirty and holy with her blood.

 

“You said you wanted to live,” she whispers, as she presses the glass into his hand. “So live.”

  



End file.
